


This Business of Art

by lazarus_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When longtime Broadway rivals Santana Lopez and Rachel Berry are cast in the same film musical, they’re forced to put their differences aside for the sake of the production. Publicly, they’re America’s favourite new best friends. Privately, they’re much more than that.</p><p>
  <i>“What is it they say? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Business of Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [random_flores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_flores/gifts).



> AU. Future fic. There are no explicit references to canon, but characters pop up in new and interesting guises. Inspired in part by the upcoming ‘Frenemies’ episode. Written for and prompted by the lovely [nuthintasee](http://nuthintasee.tumblr.com), based around [this](http://nuthintasee.tumblr.com/post/71712041241/smoke-me-up-that-moment-when-her-fingers) gif (NSFW). This story covers a lot of ground, but it’s driven by the fact I wanted to write something that explored the relationship between public and private personas. Title from the Tegan and Sara album of the same name. References to _Fame_ are limited to the Alan Parker film, since I know it better than the musical (my _Fame_ obsession is second only to my _RENT_ obsession!). Thank you, as ever, to [itcameuponamidnightqueer](http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com) for her beta and cheerleading skills. She’s totally responsible for guiding me towards writing a better ending for this and threw me some great ideas throughout. She’s awesome. I really pleased with how this came out. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

***

 _“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you._  
 _You leave the same impression_  
 _Of something beautiful, but annihilating.”_  
– Sylvia Plath, ‘The Rival.’

***

_“Santana! Santana!”_

_“To the left!”_

_“Where’s that smile honey, huh?”_

_“This way, just a few more!”_

She’s used to occasions like this now. Santana Lopez the pretty, popular cheerleader, who sang along to the radio and joined the drama club just to get breathing space from the rigours of AP classes, has become Santana Lopez the beautiful, talented young Broadway star. The barrage of photographers calling her name as she stands on the red carpet doesn’t seem as loud as it used to be, even if they say her name right these days. The flashes from their cameras don’t seem as bright. The lustre and excitement is long gone. The stage is what she lives for – and that sounds so _fucking_ trite, she’s well aware – this is just a necessary evil. Part of the job. She has to be visible and put herself out there. Profile is everything. Becoming famous is one thing, staying famous is another. There are always people snapping at your heels. She’s the girl of the moment right now, but tomorrow, she could be back to waiting tables and booking ads for orange juice and sugar-free gum or hawking cosmetics on HSN.

Cues from her publicist April Rhodes – she has a whole team of people looking after her, a peppy little assistant, Tina, to boot – sit fresh in her mind: smile (but not too wide), talk (but not too much); listen (but direct the conversation). Stick to the script. Stand still, look pretty. Promote the production. Namedrop the designer, the dress and the jewellery. This is just another part to master – the easiest, and the hardest, because she’s selling herself. She’s as much a product as being Mimi Marquez or now, Coco Hernandez in _Fame_ , her first movie role and her chance to really prove herself as a triple threat. Santana Lopez the star and Santana Lopez the girl are different entities; they became that to her long ago, and she’s glad. It keeps her sane around all this crazy.

It’s not what she dreamed of in Lima. Things rarely live up to the hype. Imagination colours the world in brighter hues; reality always suffers by comparison. Back then, all she had to worry about was if she could make it to New York with just the encouragement of her teacher Miss Pillsbury, a moderately successful YouTube channel, and a stack of leading roles in high school plays to her name. As it turns out, a killer take on Adele and Amy, plus a couple of shaky camera videos of her playing Anita and pretty much saving an otherwise mediocre production of _West Side Story_ does open some doors, but a lot of them slammed in her face just as fast. Now, in New York, that lack of training gets used against her in cattle call auditions when her face doesn’t fit or her voice is too much pop and not enough Broadway to sound right to them. She got lucky making it to Broadway with Mimi, she got luckier still when Will Schuester decided to go against the studio head, Sandy Ryerson, and cast her as Coco.

They like to call her rise meteoric – it makes for good copy, they love a Cinderella story – but she worked damn hard to get where she is, and she’s not about to let any of it slip from her grasp. Not even coming face-to-face with Broadway’s sweetheart Rachel Berry has stopped her from going after what she wants. Even when it’s the same part. Like most people, Santana knew about Rachel before she met her. She admired her, respected her even. She was famous before she even stepped on a stage. The sweet child star, born from Broadway royalty-turned-golden-couple, Shelby Corcoran and Leroy Berry, playing every precocious part from Cosette to Dorothy, before she’d even graduated high school. Rachel got everything she didn’t, even a place at Juilliard. Santana didn’t even make the cut for New York auditions.

Their paths just kept crossing at auditions or during readings at The New York Theatre Workshop. People started to speculate and make comparisons. Rachel’s name would come up in casual conversation and her own whenever Rachel was interviewed anywhere. Fine, her people said. Good, even. All publicity is good publicity. Except, that’s a lie. It’s not. All it took was one new musical about Gia Carangi, a string of callbacks that saw them pitted against each other for weeks and it hit a whole new level. It wasn’t friendly anymore. They lived and breathed it. Rachel was relentless in her pursuit; certain she understood Gia’s turmoil. Santana was certain Rachel had led too charmed a life to even begin that process. She won out, but the victory was hollow. No one remembers the title – Thing of Beauty – but everyone remembers that it failed. Santana was good. The best thing about it in fact, but compared to Rachel Berry, she wasn’t good enough. The damage had already been done. They framed Santana as the pretender to the throne, ready to snatch Rachel’s crown and more than happy to step over anyone to get it. After that, everything was twice as hard while Rachel’s career went from strength to strength.

She was barely nineteen and she was thinking of throwing it all in after getting nothing but commercials and ensemble parts for years. Santana hated Rachel. She hated seeing her face on posters and bus blinds or hearing her voice on the TV. She forced herself to try harder and be better. Trying out for everything and anything. She wanted to be in Rachel’s face and get right under her skin. Failure wasn’t an option. It wasn’t plain rivalry anymore, it was a full on feud. Even the magazines called it one. She took more classes and worked and worked and worked, trying for everything and anything to get the edge. It got ruthless, and borderline unhealthy. Fast.

Eventually, it paid off, and people started to take real notice. She stopped having to fight for auditions and started to be the first choice instead of the last. Suddenly they recognised her for being more than a pretty face who could hold a tune. Then, at twenty-four, _RENT_ came along and pretty much saved her life. Playing Mimi Marquez was her Juilliard. She became her. From opening night to closing, months later, she was there, damn near killing herself to keep going, but she did it, and earned the grudging respect of her peers along with Drama Desk and Tony nominations. She lost the Tony, and Rachel got the Drama Desk for her turn as Hope Harcourt in _Anything Goes_. To Santana’s surprise, Rachel thanked her in the acceptance speech, and admitted she should’ve won. It was a victory all of its own. She wasn’t the pretender to the throne anymore, she was the real deal. They were equals now.

Thanks to the reviews and the awards buzz, people were starting to talk about huge things like _Evita_ and throwing around ideas about leading her own tour like Judy Garland and building jukebox musicals around her about Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday, and suddenly, the rivalry felt real. Suddenly, imagining she could turn out to be this generation’s Rita Moreno or Lena Horne didn’t seem so ridiculous. It seemed within touching distance. Amongst all those offers, one stood out, and felt like the perfect way to get back into the swing of working after her downtime from _RENT_. The script for a reboot – sorry, re-visioning – of _Fame_ landed in her lap. The studio wanted it to be a marriage of the Alan Parker movie and the original musical, to expose it to a new generation, like Schuester had already done with _Hairspray_ and bury the ‘hideous glossy remake’ – Will’s words, not hers; she kind of dug it, if she’s honest. He wanted Broadway actors instead of ones from TV shows and teen movies, but with the same level of appeal. For once, she was in the right place at the right time.

Except there were thousands of Coco’s in-waiting, including Rachel.

The studio wanted her, ready to adapt the part. Though Santana was gaining on her, Rachel’s star was brighter and more bankable. Schuester dug in his heels maintaining that Coco was meant to be an ordinary girl not a privileged starlet. He wanted to build a core cast of popular, fresh talent around a strong ensemble. Everyone else they picked, Santana knew either from previous jobs in her ensemble years, like Jesse St James (Montgomery) and Michael Chang (Leroy) or her _RENT_ days with Stephanie ‘Sugar’ Motta (Lisa), and Brittany Pierce (Hilary), who was once the Sandy Linter to her Gia. She has a soft spot for both of them, after living in Bushwick with Sugar when they lived off pop tarts and ramen, and she hung out with Brittany at NYTW all the time, and maybe they hooked-up once or twice during the whole ill-fated Gia mess. OK, so it was way more than twice and she’s the closest thing Santana’s ever had to girlfriend post high experimenting.

Knowing Brittany and Sugar were there too just made her try that little bit harder through the callbacks process. She was determined to make Coco hers. To give everything she had and prove that Schuester was right to fight for her. In the end, Ryerson backed down. He got Rachel, but as Doris instead. Publicly, Rachel turned it to her advantage, and told everyone who would listen that she wanted to be cast to tap into the similar background of Doris and Maureen Teefy both; that she ‘rallied for it.’ Behind closed doors, the diva strop Rachel threw would put Elizabeth Taylor to shame. Just to stop the production from grinding to a halt they agreed to anything she wanted, including rewrites to allow her to sing, and taking the role of Bruno away from pretty-boy studio favourite, Sebastian Smythe just so her little pop-puppet boyfriend Blaine Anderson could have it instead. Luckily – and infuriatingly – Blaine turned out to be good, and he had that whole Lee Curreri look going after letting his hair grow for another part. Rachel’s always talked him up incessantly in interviews, but Santana quickly realised he lived up to the hype.

So, here they are, just over a year later. She’s been booking jobs steadily, getting her own studio time to record on the back of the _Fame_ buzz. Even though she’s in rehearsal for a play right now, flexing her acting muscles as Jessica in _This is Our Youth_ she’s still rocking a variation on her Coco hair – she hated it at first, but now she digs it, and so does her new director Holly Holliday – looking every inch the lovechild of Whitney Houston circa 1989 and her high school best friend Quinn Fabray during her punk phase (because they wanted Coco to look ‘gritty and urban’). Rachel meanwhile has grown out her fringe and has blonde tips to look decidedly un-Doris-like because of her new deal with Herbal Essences and a shift toward doing TV work. Blaine still has his crazy Bruno ‘fro because it makes all his little fangirls go nuts. He has a record out in a month, so he’ll need every one of those screaming little darlings to download it.

It’s been crazy busy, and they’ve barely stopped. Even though they’re not even working on the same stuff anymore, she still sees everyone, and the studio likes them to attend events together, trotting them out like little show ponies. _Fame_ is nearing release, ready for the big summer push, and they’re the names on everyone’s lips, invited to anything and everything – fashion shows, premieres, gifting suites – ploughing their way through magazine shoots and interviews. Against all the odds, and the most hellish schedule of rehearsal she’s ever endured, they made it. They made the movie, a really good movie that testing audiences really liked, but more than that, one she’s really proud of, because everyone worked damn hard, and she counts Blaine as a friend now.

Once all the bitching and the competition died – they were too tired to care after a while – they bonded, really bonded, in that borderline disgusting way she always thought felt fake whenever she read about it, but with such long hours and such a heavy workload, they either had to get along or get the hell out, and there was no way Santana was back down, even when Rachel was threatening to take her songs, and watching her even more closely during dance rehearsal than their choreographer, Cassie July. Even so, the biggest surprise of all – the one thing that she’s still trying to get her head around as she waits for the final camera flash to off and the first interviewer’s microphone to get shoved under her nose, is the fact that she’s proud of Rachel too. The fact they managed not to kill each other is a minor miracle.

She glances down the press line, seeing a correspondent from E! talking to Rachel and Blaine. They’re wrapped in each other like always; her hand on his chest, flashing a huge rock of an engagement ring, all smiles and glowing praise for her leading man. Tonight is his moment, the tiny indie film he was in before _Fame_ , _Astor Place_ about a busker who makes it big has skyrocketed so they’re out to show their support and keep up the momentum for what’s next. The studio likes to play on the real-life besties angle, and they love the fact that she and Rachel can be called that even more. _Fame_ is the film that repaired their ‘rift.’ It’s gotten them serious column inches. Everyone’s fascinated about the how and the why of it all, eager for details, angling for pictures of them together. To hear Sandy Ryerson talk, it’s like they declared peace in the Middle East. It’s the perfect new chapter in the epic Rachel Berry/Santana Lopez saga, but all they know a version of the truth: an accumulation of lies they choose to consistently tell.

People think they know everything about Rachel Barbra Berry, like it matters that her favourite colour is purple, that she has two Pomeranian dogs called Fred and Ginger, or that she won’t do anything before she’s drunk at least one Starbucks Peppermint Soy Latte. Well, they don’t know shit.

Truth number one: Blaine Anderson and Rachel Berry, Juilliard sweethearts, will _not_ be getting married. They won’t be getting married because America’s current curly-mopped heartthrob of choice is so far in the closet he’s in Narnia. Their relationship is all for the cameras, cooked up between them both and Blaine’s management. Santana found out two weeks into shooting _Fame_ when they all got trashed on tequila slammers and she saw him making out in the bathroom with one of the extras, Sam Evans. Rachel called it a “mutually beneficial agreement,” because it gets the gossip columns off her back about who she’s dating – so she dates whoever she likes – and it keeps Blaine’s management happy because they don’t want him to be seen as anything but straight and cookie-cutter perfect. It makes Santana kind of sad, because really, he’s a nice guy, and who gives a fuck if he’s gay really? Santana’s never hid her sexuality – her first manager tried that, but she got done with that in high school, thanks – but she’s also never made a big deal of who she’s dated either. It’s called a private life for a reason. If you give too much of yourself away, one day, you’ll have nothing left.

Truth number two: Former Broadway rivals Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez really are BFF’s, but it’s not the forever kind of friend, it’s the fucking kind. They’re indulging in some platinum-grade benefits. A lot. Yes, she’s gone from loathing Rachel with every fibre of her being to fucking her brains out on a regular basis and liking it. The girl might look all kinds of sweet and innocent, but she has a real filthy mouth and isn’t nearly as uptight as Santana thought. She’s surprisingly good in bed, and it became clear pretty quickly that Santana wasn’t the first girl she’d ever been with.

No one was more surprised than her when Rachel kissed back. The shock of it all still hasn’t really worn off. She’s tried to pinpoint the exact moment where she went from grudgingly tolerating Rachel’s existence and ignoring what a demanding bitch she can be to hooking up with her at any and every opportunity. It all happened because of one song. One _fucking_ song. ‘Out Here on my Own.’

It was the one Santana had been obsessed with getting right since she scored the part. It’s Coco’s moment. Even the soundtrack recording with David Martinez took twice as long as everything else. The rehearsals went terribly, she was pitchy and kept missing her cues. Cassie lost her patience and moved along to run through another song. Rachel seemed to pick up on her nerves, and extended an offer for Santana to drop by her apartment in Manhattan and work on it once they went home for the day.

_“It’s my name on that poster too. You mess up, we all mess up. There’s a limit to the mistakes you can make. I assume you want to keep the career you hustled me for.”_

For about five seconds, Santana was insulted – because she’d had just about enough of Rachel’s corrections every time she took a breath – but five seconds later, she was touched, impressed even. Sure, Rachel was saving her own skin, but she thought enough of Santana to deem her worthy of saving too. It took her all day to decide, but eventually, she took Rachel up on her offer. They went to Manhattan, and Rachel’s apartment was like something out of glossy magazine. It was weird seeing Rachel in her own environment; completely relaxed, padding around barefoot and freshly changed into in an oversized sweater and leggings, offering her red wine in a huge glass and taking her coat, every inch the hostess.

They ran the song, listening to every recording YouTube had, and then the work lead from her recording session with David. Santana expected the coaching, the note scribbling, the hand signals to make her pause, but it was Rachel’s reaction once she let Santana actually run the song through proper for the first time.

Rachel was feet away, sitting Indian style on the carpet in front of her, looking up in awe. She had the same look on her face as the day Santana saw her own reflection in the TV as she watched Shelby Corcoran sing during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade back in middle school. She didn’t look away once. Neither did Rachel that evening. Sublime, she called it. Utterly sublime. Santana blinked back her surprise, mouth opening and closing as she searched for her thanks, reaching for her wine to cloak her embarrassment, cheeks hot.

_“I always knew you were right for this. I never used to think you were better than me, but when it comes to this, you are. I was wrong about you. So very wrong.”_

Suddenly, Rachel wasn’t on the floor anymore, she was a lot closer, studying her. Something had shifted. Rachel took the wine glass from her hand, and Santana just watched, quiet and still, knowing exactly where this was going. She glanced over to what she knew was Rachel’s bedroom, the door was ajar. Maybe it was planned. Maybe all Rachel wanted was someone new in her bed, but Santana didn’t much care, the desire spiking in her belly was real enough. She closed the gap between her and Rachel, and then they were kissing; fast and hungry, Rachel leaning up on her toes, hands in Santana’s hair. They were headed backwards for that bedroom and both of them wanted it.

The wine makes most of the rest of that night a very pretty blur that she remembers in fragmented close-up. Of greedily tugging at clothes, lots of filthy open-mouthed kissing. Of slowly running her hands over the curve of Rachel’s back, and breasts, and perfect peachy ass. Of rolling around in that pristine bed naked, sweaty and breathless until it was ruined beyond all recognition. But one thing is startling clear. It’s how Santana felt, lying on top of Rachel, mouths millimetres apart, seeming like every inch of their bodies was already touching, when she pressed her fingers inside Rachel for the first time. Rachel’s gasp – 50-50 satisfaction and relief, was intoxicating, and that feeling only. In the dim light of Rachel’s bedroom, Santana could only just see the look of pure, unadulterated pleasure on her face when she sunk her fingers deeper, curling just so to tease; but she heard that pleasure loudly enough.

Maybe that’s why she finds herself unable to resist when Rachel calls her in the middle of the night and they end up fucking on Rachel’s couch, in the back of her car or against the wall of some dingy club. She wants to replay that moment all over again on a loop. The memory of it makes her smile, real and bright because of how twisted and ridiculous and fucked up it all is. The photographers lap it up, clicking like crazy until she’s dizzy and can’t see a damn thing.

_“And here she is, the Queen of Broadway!”_

At the sound of the nearby photographer’s announcement, Santana looks up to see Rachel coming toward her, Blaine following behind. Rachel waves, poses a little, playing along, stroking all their egos.

“Not quite yet!” Rachel coos, smiling, and Santana practically hears the collective swoon.

They greet each other warmly with chirpy hellos and kisses on the cheek as the barrage of cameras carry on flashing.

“You look hot,” Santana whispers, hand settling on Rachel’s lower back. “That dress makes your ass look amazing.”

Rachel laughs lightly, swatting at her playfully as she turns to pose. “Not so bad yourself, honey,” she whispers back. “You’d look much better out of yours though, don’t you think?”

“Later?” she asks, dangerously careless.

“Our usual place, Rachel replies, pulling her closer. The look on her face says they won’t be getting much sleep before the _Fame_ promotional tour kicks proper tomorrow and they’re holed up in press junkets.

“You assume I want to come, Miss Berry.”

“Oh, you’ll be coming, Miss Lopez. I assure you.”

Thank God no one can hear any of this over the chorus of catcalls and “Nice girls, very nices” and “just a few mores” and the noise of the fans cheering and calling out for autographs and pictures. Her jaw is starting to ache from all the smiling and she’s pretty sure some of the autographs she’s signed are barely more than an opulent squiggle, but she knows how important it is. For the business of course, as much as she loathes it, but for the honest joy she gets out of making these kids happy. She was them once, all starry-eyed.

Before she knows it, Blaine flanks her opposite side, leaning close, and the TV crews inch along to speak to them. Game time. Behind her back, Rachel’s fingertips stroke along the gap between the top of her skirt, and the edge of her top. Santana swallows hard, a thrill running up her spine. She’ll make her pay for that later. Without missing a beat she flashes the closest camera a smile. Then she turns to her left and blows a kiss. They start to wolf-whistle and she just lets herself bask in it. If only they knew. If only.

“Looking good babe,” Blaine says with a smile.

“I try.” Santana smiles back. “It’s all borrowed. I turn into a pumpkin at twelve.”

It’s become just as easy to be around him as it has with Rachel. She’s not sure when that happened. Tangled webs and all that. His hand finds Rachel’s, brushing the same spot on her back by accident, and it still makes her shiver. He’s the only one that knows the truth beyond Sugar – she had to tell someone, but didn’t know who, and carrying it around was starting to become suffocating, even though they were careful not to change their behaviour too much on set. She did however, relent and let Rachel make a big show of things and announce to the whole cast that they’d “put their differences aside for the good of the production.” They conveniently left out the part where that entire conversation took place in bed, passing a cigarette between them trying to figure out what hell just happened.

“I’m a lucky guy, huh boys? Two of the most beautiful leading ladies ever, right?”

The photographers chorus their approval, and then the pretty MTV reporter, Marley Rose, who loves them all to death is right in front of them, microphone at the ready. Santana’s glad they’re easing them in gently. Marley’s interviewed them before, and she isn’t nearly as hard on them as she could be.

“I’m here with Rachel Berry, Santana Lopez, and Blaine Anderson tonight at the premiere of _Astor Place_. Great to see you guys, and you’re all looking gorgeous!” she coos. “Show us your dresses, ladies!”

They smile and nod, and she and Rachel both break off to do a little spin.

“What brings you out tonight Santana?”

“I had to show some love and support for this guy here!” she beams in Blaine’s direction when they fall back in line and he nods.

“I paid her to say that!”

Marley laughs, and she and Rachel follow out of sheer habit, cute and girlish like they always do, because Anderson’s a charming fucker, and he plays up to it. He just grins, turning a little to the left when the photographer calls for him to. They should be giving this guy Oscars for what he pulls off on a daily basis. Rachel too. None of them really stop performing.

“No seriously,” Santana cuts in, “working with these guys on _Fame_ , we just got so close and I really admire what they do. Blaine is amazing and I had to come and see him on the big screen!”

Marley grins from ear to ear. Somewhere, Santana knows Sandy Ryerson is doing the exact same thing. It’s a favour really, to the sister studio as much as Blaine, but damn if it won’t work in their favour in the upcoming weeks.

“What was it like working with these two Blaine? Did you have to break up any fights?”

“I got pretty good with a water hose!”

“Oh Blaine stop it!” Rachel declares dramatically. “He’s just kidding. You know, that rivalry thing, it’s all in the past now. We were young and just starting out.”

She jumps in, overlapping Rachel, publicist’s words ringing loud in her ear. ‘Keep it light, Santana. Be professional.’

“You know, this is the first chance we actually got to work together. We actually found out that we’re very similar.”

“Both incredibly driven and ambitious ladies,” Blaine cuts in seamlessly, and God Santana loves him in this moment.

“You forgot talented!” Marley in, and everyone laughs. “What happened, did you talk things out or?”

“We did,” Rachel begins. “I wanted us to start fresh, have a clean slate. Having all that animosity on a set isn’t good. Before we started shooting proper we just sat down and talked everything through.”

“It was good to clear the air,” Santana nods along.

“Definitely,” Rachel glances over, smiling. “We just came to a mutual agreement to draw a line under things. We haven’t really looked back since.”

“You guys make a pretty dynamic duo!” Marley exclaims, looking like she pretty much wants to marry them because they just gave her the best soundbite ever, and the woman from E! just to her left looks like she’ll murder her and get the cameraman to hide the body.

Predictably, Marley shifts the talk toward the wedding, and she switches places with Blaine, nodding her thanks to the interviewer as she moves along to the next person in line. It takes all of Santana’s will not to burst out laughing. In her peripheral vision, she sees Blaine go pale. A mutual agreement. Jesus _fucking_ Christ they’re all screwed. Literally, figuratively. Someday, someone will pull at the thread that sends their masterplan unravelling. On days like this, it feels more like a ‘when kind of thing than an ‘if,’ but how the hell would she respond if the next interviewer asked her about sleeping with Rachel? She has no idea, and not just because she doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing.

Somehow, she manages to make it along the rest of the press line, smiling and nodding along in all the right places. The questions are mostly the same and in turn, so are the answers she gives. She’s polite and ‘peppy’ as April likes to term it, borderline hyperbolic at times, but press always eat that stuff up, so she gives them what they’re after. She’ll never be accused of being rude or uncooperative, but she’s not a kiss ass either. People are always out to trip her up, to get a different angle on things so they get that golden headline. Given that Rachel’s the topic of choice tonight, she’s more guarded than usual. All it would take is one tiny slip of the tongue – in all senses of the phrase – and that’s it. Game over.

Once they’re inside, in the dark of the movie theatre, it feels like she can finally breathe. Slumping down in her seat, she kicks off her heels, because they’re already starting to hurt, and the night is far from over. The movie is good, much better than she thought it would be, and Blaine’s even better. Even in an industry screening like this, she knows the reception is good, and all the mutterings going on around her are resoundingly positive. His stock is definitely on the rise, and she’s glad, she’s proud even, but she’s more than a little jealous too.

Rachel is closer than she anticipated, with just a few appropriate spaces between them. She’s sandwiched between them and a bunch of studio executives, so she gets a ringside view of the Anderson-Berry PDA machine in full effect. He holds her hand between both of his, and it’s soft and intimate, and the tenderness surprises her, and not only because it’s been directed at her more than once. Since they wrapped _Fame_ the profile of his and Rachel’s relationship has grown tenfold, even before the engagement announcement. Rachel’s told her more than once that they’re planning to call it off when it’s ‘right,’ but now she’s wedding dress shopping and has a wedding planner catering to her every whim – even if they aren’t nearly as outlandish as the gossip suggests. At times like this, when she’s isolated and alone, she wonders if anything Rachel Berry says or does is real. What is it they say? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?

She’ll never know the answer and maybe that’s what keeps her in this too. Habits are easy to form and hard to break, especially when that habit is founded on loyalty that’s continually tested and binds tighter than any contract she’s ever signed. She’s had to take risks to get where she is, and Rachel is the biggest gamble of them all. The stakes are getting higher than she bargained for.

There are no rules. There’s no real agreement of any kind. She trusts Rachel now, implicitly; she has no real choice in the matter. They have too much riding on this to stab each other in the back. The hate she used to harbour for Rachel is long gone, but Santana sure as hell isn’t in _love_ with her, not at all. She doesn’t know what she feels exactly, but she feels something, and that’s enough reason for her not to stop doing this anytime soon, even if it is getting more dangerous than she’d like. It’s the kind of danger that leads her to cut out of the after party early and take a cab to a dive bar in New Jersey, hoping against hope that Rachel will follow and keep up her end of the bargain. She tips the driver double – how good she’s become at buying people’s discretion – his face looks like it’s Christmas in February, and she throws him a wink from the kerb for good measure, waiting until he’s gone before she ventures inside.

The moment she’s through the door, she moves quickly to her favourite corner, hidden enough so that she’s not disturbed, but not far away from the door so she can’t see Rachel or anyone else coming. It’s practically dead at this hour of the morning, is ‘their usual place,’ the neutral ground that allows them to be Santana and Rachel again. She used to work here for a while, right out of high school, and she has an affection for the place. The people are friendly on the whole, the liquor is cheap and she knows every song on the aging jukebox. So does Rachel. She brought her here to cure her cheese fries craving after a long night of filming, and they sang along out of tune to ABBA and drank tequila until they stumbled into a cab, and then into bed. Since then, it’s been their go-to when they want to get away from everyone and everything else. The bartender, Ray, knows her well enough for her not to need to do anything but nod her head before a drink is in front of her. It’s gone before she realises, and there’s another in its place.

"Long night, superstar?” he drawls as he tops up her drink, and she nods by way of reply, shrugging out of her jacket.

She’s used to occasions like this now. Her feet still hurt; her jaw aches even more from smiling too much; her throat is practically raw from talking loud enough to make herself heard; and her head is more than a little too fuzzy from too much champagne too fast. She looks out of place dressed as she is, but she’s far too tired and the bottom of the whisky glass she’s staring into is far too inviting for her to care even a little. It always ends this way, waiting and downing her sorrows, her good mood long since soured. All that time in close proximity on _Fame_ has made her take Rachel for granted. She could have her any time she wanted, any way, any how. Now there are limits. Now, they’re just blocks of time marked out in each other’s schedules.

Rachel’s late. Very late, and her phone is curiously silent. Maybe they’ve pushed this too hard one too many times.

“Another for the lady.”

Four words that’s all it takes for everything to change. Ray leans over, pausing his cleaning and Rachel slides on to the bar stool next to her.

“Ah, the Diva has arrived! Been a while,” he chuckles, and it takes all of her will not to turn and face Rachel straight away. “One for you?”

“Always Ray.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he replies, softer, pouring quickly.

“Put it on my tab.”

Rachel’s being so sweet and polite that she wants to throw up.

She keeps her gaze fixed on the rows of pictures behind Ray’s head, fading photographs of boxers, basketball and football players, refusing to even look in Rachel’s direction. Not yet. She won’t let Rachel win all the time. Right now, this is nothing but a glorified bootie call, and Santana Lopez will never ever allow herself to be reduced to that. There’s a mirror right above the bar, so she can see Rachel perfectly, whether she wants to or not. She looks much the same as at the party; not a hair out of place, pristine and beautiful. The only difference is the slight flush to her cheeks, and even that’s pretty.

“You’re late,” Santana comments, unmoving.

“I have obligations,” Rachel reminds her as she slips off her jacket.

At that, she turns to face her at last because it’s so practiced, so matter-of-fact, like she’s this serene, higher being, that Santana could cheerfully strangle her. Rachel has much, much more to lose than she does, but she doesn’t like being reminded of it.

“Oh,” she glares. “Did those obligations involve drinking the bar dry or did you just need that to keep kissing him?”

The bitterness laced in her voice surprises her, and she turns away again, drinking down the dregs of her drink, slamming the glass against the bar in an angry but useless act of defiance.

Maybe she does hate Rachel after all. She still has the power to get under her skin like she did when they were younger, except now Rachel has hooks that sink in far deeper than words ever could.

“Jealousy is an ugly emotion, Santana. You know the deal.”

“Oh, yeah,” she scoffs. “The deal. You mean the one where everyone but me wins?”

Rachel sighs heavily, and it feels like the air in the room changes with it. Santana knows that feeling well. It always happens when she reveals a tiny chink in Rachel’s armour, when Rachel Berry is peeled away to show a fragment of plain old Rachel.

“Don't be like that,” Rachel says, wearily. “This is more difficult for me than it is for you.”

Even though Santana’s not looking at her, she knows that the signature pout and the doe eyes are in full effect. She won’t fall for it. Not this time. Being second best is starting to get really old. Maybe it’s time she actually calls one of the numbers that get put into her phone by some incredibly hot girls instead of forgetting they exist. She could have anyone she wanted. In fact, she could have someone in her bed tonight and not have to work too hard at all. But pretty little interns and cute-as-pie ensemble girls aren’t Rachel, and that’s the problem.

When she doesn’t respond. Rachel puts her hand on Santana’s knee, but she shirks it, turning on her stool. She has no reply to that, because there’s no room to argue. Rachel’s right. Suddenly she feels like the biggest bitch on the planet for daring to want just a little more. It’s not even her fault, Rachel started this, and she’s been the one instigating almost all of it since then.

“Sometimes it'd be nice not to have to compete for your attention.”

That’s the drink talking, Santana muses, watching yet another whisky disappear, relishing the burn as it slides down her throat. She sounds like a needy, pathetic child, grasping at a toy she’s long since grown out of but refuses to part with.

Then, Rachel is closer, breath hot on Santana’s neck, and she just about dies. With play rehearsals and schedule conflicts it’s the closest they’ve been for weeks.

“Well, I don't see anyone else here, do you?”

Santana swallows hard, barely able to stifle her moan; that low, teasing whisper always gets her. Always. Fuck you, is all she can think as she turns her head away. Fuck. You.

“For once,” she smirks, looking pointedly at Rachel.

Rachel lets out a short peal of laughter, but Santana can tell she’s getting irritated. Rachel’s used – too used – to getting what she wants. Why shouldn’t she have to work for it sometimes?

“Come on,” Rachel announces, suddenly rising from her stool.

“Where?” she groans, really in no mood for this now. The moment’s gone. The moment had gone _hours_ ago. She just wants to go home, and sleep in her own bed. Alone, before she has to paint on her smile and start this whole ridiculous press charade all over again. “It’s been a long night.”

“Manhattan.”

At that, Santana’s head jerks up; looking between Rachel, and the hand she’s holding out for her to take. Rachel keeps it there longer than she expects her to. Another risk, of a different kind. Despite herself, she gathers her jacket and bag, shoes hooked between her fingers. Slightly unsteady on her feet, she reluctantly takes Rachel’s hand. They say nothing else, head toward the exit and then out into the night. It’s colder than either of them expects, and it makes them move closer together. Santana isn’t sure if she’s following or being led, but she does know this: Rachel’s won. Again. Manhattan is enough for now. It’s a promise. It’s a memory they can keep. It’s something real and precious in a world that’s full of fake and impermanent things, and Santana’s going to keep hold of it for as long as she can.

***

 **Footnote** : If Santana did get to play Coco, I think she’d look a lot like [this](https://24.media.tumblr.com/7330f3d852a26f0794293d98b9e09be4/tumblr_n3orvgxgSW1txkikoo1_1280.jpg) and the arrangements they gave [Naturi Naughton](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gIu2r1rya2Q) in the 2009 remake are totally in Naya’s wheelhouse. Not that I’ve given this a great deal of thought or anything …


End file.
